Why Not?
by rock x crazii 342
Summary: Well, why not? Admit it -- you're intrigued. One-shot, random story that popped into my head after reading a fortune cookie.


**Why Not?**

_Well, why not? Admit it – you're intrigued._

Hermione Granger stared down at the fortune cookie in her hand. Bah! What rubbish. Honestly, these things were getting more and more ridiculous by the day!

"What did you get, Hermione?"

Hermione looked up and rolled her eyes at her Muggle friend, Marisa. She read her fortune aloud, and then grimaced. "I fail to see how these could get any more vague."

Eric, another of her friends, heartily agreed. "They've become so commercial! Just a moneymaking way to give people cookies and 'prophecies' at the same time. Those hotshot corporate men are milking this industry, and we, the masses, just eat it all up. No pun intended."

Everyone stared at him and commenced to throw whatever was within their reach at him.

"Hey!" Eric protested. "Just saying!"

"Just saying, my arse." Hermione snorted. "When you become one of those rich hotshot corporate men, I'd like to see you complain."

He grinned. "Now if these fortunes were up to me, being a hotshot corporate man, I might make them a bit more interesting. Like, perhaps, a werewolf will you snatch you up at the stroke of midnight on the most important night of your life. Beware!"

They all laughed at how utterly pathetic he was, and Hermione couldn't help but snicker at the irony of it all.

Briefly, Hermione wondered how much fun the magical world would have with fortune cookies. She was sure there was a way that they could actually have somewhat true fortunes—plenty of Seers could be employed in that business. She laughed inwardly. That would be a bit unnerving, she could imagine, having your real fortune on a piece of paper that fell out of a cookie, however vague and unremarkable.

"How about, 'you're going to get pissed off your arse and have it out with your boss?'" Jake, another friend of hers, joked.

"Yeah, that would go over well. Imagine a five-year-old getting that one!" Hermione giggled, trying to picture the parents' reaction.

Currently, she and a group of her Muggle friends from back home in England were sitting in a Chinese restaurant in America. It was a funny situation that had landed them there—or, rather, a string of coincidences (or mishaps) that involved Marisa missing her flight, Jake losing the address of where he needed to go, and Eric's luggage being lost at the airport.

Really, it was rather strange that it had happened so. It wasn't just that there were four of them; it was also that they had happened to come into contact with each other, and were now sitting, eating dinner, and leisurely discussing fortune cookies.

Hermione was supposed to be back at Hogwarts to attend her seventh year. Actually, school wasn't actually starting for another two days, which was what was allowing her to breathe—she probably would have imploded if she had missed the Sorting and all that. She didn't know anyone personally getting Sorted, but it was the morality of the thing, the tradition—Dumbledore's redundant speech, the rekindled interhouse disunity, the reuniting with old friends. Really, it would be rather unfortunate to miss it. She hadn't yet come up with a plan; currently, she was without wand, trunks, or correspondence with anybody that was privy to the magical world, but she wasn't really all that worried.

Her own story was rather unfortunate: she had been on vacation with her parents in the States, specifically Hawaii, and they had been separated at the airport in Chicago on the way home. Her parents had insisted she not bring her wand—they claimed that they wanted a completely non-magical, non-tragedy-based vacation. She had known all along that they still harbored that deep-seeded disposition that with all magic came catastrophe, and she couldn't really blame them, what with the War and all that had gone on.

Anyways, she had found herself alone in a completely Muggle city, where she had no idea how to contact anybody magical, having no wand and no owl. She couldn't very well send a letter in the Muggle post to Harry or Ron—it wouldn't reach them for a week, at least, and besides, she didn't know their Muggle addresses, it was a shame to say; she was used to just writing their names on envelopes and having the owls find their way.

Luckily, she had one of the brilliant assets of the Muggle world with her: a cell phone! As a reconciliation attempt for confiscating their wand (her parents had practically threatened no vacation if she was going to insist on bringing it), they had upgraded the plan on her cell phone that she used with her Muggle friends in Britain so that it worked in the States as well.

That was how she had contacted the rest of her friends—or, rather, they had contacted her. She had first gotten a call from Jake, who was rather distraught because he was sitting in a taxi and couldn't remember the address of the place he was supposed to be going, and somehow expected her to whip it out of thin air, being the organized, sharp-minded person she was, and then, while trying to calm down Jake over the phone, Eric had called, saying that the corporate world that they lived in was a complete disaster and the airport baggage tracking system, if it even existed, was exhibit number one.

Back at present, their waiter was placing the bill in the middle of the table.

Eric glared at it. "Bloody Americans! Can't wait for us to finish our bloody meal before stuffing their bloody check in front of our bloody faces—"

"Okay!" Hermione spoke up sharply. "That's enough blood to cover a battlefield."

Eric rolled her eyes, but shut his dirty mouth.

Jake and Eric gallantly split the bill, which was just as well because Hermione only had about ten dollars—Muggle money—on her. If only she had her trunks—! She would have had, at least, Wizarding money with her, and she could have maybe tracked down a magical part of town and exchanged it….

On second thought, that was a whole lot of work for the maybe one or two days that she would be stuck there.

Directly following dinner, nobody really had a solid plan of what to do. They exited the restaurant, stepping out into the cool August-turning-September air and wondering what their next step should be.

"Don't you have the phone number of the people you're visiting?" Hermione asked Jake as they leaned against a signpost near the main road, watching cars whiz by. They must have looked like hooligans to anyone that passed by, but frankly, they didn't really care.

Jake shook his head. "My parents gave it to me on a slip of paper, even though I told them that I would lose it and they should just tell me it later when I had my phone on me. Low and behold, I lost the paper." He rolled his eyes. "And if I call my parents, they'll throw a fit for it."

Hermione grimaced. "I guess you're a bit stuck, then."

"No," He replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Not in the least bit."

With a shrug, she turned to Marisa. "Could they schedule you on another flight?"

The pretty blonde nodded. "It's set for tonight, at eleven. I should probably get back to the airport soon, right?"

Hermione nodded—it was about seven-thirty. They had eaten at leisure, but had taken the check coming as their cue to leave—really, they had only spent about forty minutes at the restaurant. They probably could have still been in there and just ignored the check and subtle hint to leave, but they didn't want to be rude.

"Let's catch a cab back to the airport, then." Eric decided. "I can talk to them again about my luggage, and we can figure things out."

They all agreed and did so. Upon reaching the airport, Marisa bid them good-bye and checked into her new flight.

Rather discouraged at the thought that Marisa was getting to go home (their vacation to Hawaii had been two weeks long—honestly, Hermione was ready to get back to England), Hermione headed off with her two friends to sort out their problems.

They went with Eric to a guest services counter, where he explained his problem. The lady told him that it would be found and reach his destination (in England) in a week maximum. Making a face, Eric nodded and bid his own good-bye to Jake and Hermione; he was supposed to be on the same flight that Marisa had just checked into. They had changed his flight for him when he had threatened some hardcore complaining about his baggage. Apparently, the airline really didn't want that much trouble.

Left alone, Hermione and Jake wandered back to sit in some plastic chairs and think out their next move.

"What are you thinking about?" Jake asked after they had sat in silence for a while.

"What we could possibly do to get you where you need to be." Hermione told him. She admitted as an after thought, "And what in my life could possibly be intriguing that I might need encouragement to pursue."

He looked confused.

"My fortune cookie." She clarified.

He scoffed. "Those aren't actually true, you know, Hermione."

She shrugged and nodded in agreement. Some silly idea floating in the back of her mind was wondering what would happen if whoever made up the fortunes for fortune cookies were actually Seers, unbeknownst to their Muggle bosses? Then she might need to take hers into serious consideration.

On second thought, she realized she was being painfully ridiculous and immediately dismissed the idea of any shred of truth being on that tiny paper.

"Okay," She said, raising her head to look at Jake. "Here's what we're going to do. We're going to—"

At that moment, frantic screams of "Jake!" cut off her no doubt brilliant plan.

Both of their eyes snapped up to a rather flustered looking woman who was running towards them, waving her hands in the air madly. "Jake!" She screamed again, even though she was five feet away from them.

Jake tilted his head, confused, but then his face broke into a wide smile. "Auntie Mel!"

Hermione took it that this was whomever he was supposed to be visiting.

She was clearly American; that much was obvious by even her pronunciation of Jake's name. She was young and pretty, with long, curly brown hair, much like Hermione's own, except longer, and bright green eyes. She wore little makeup besides eyeliner on her lower lid and her skin was smooth but slightly pale and freckled. She was wearing jeans and a light jacket, zipped up, with a black purse swinging as she ran. It looked like Coach, but Hermione couldn't tell for sure. "Oh, I'm so relieved!" She declared, hugging him quickly and then letting go. Her eyes wandered to Hermione in surprise. "Who's your friend?"

"Hermione Granger," Jake introduced quickly. "This is my Aunt Melanie, the one I'm supposed to be visiting. Heh."

Hermione laughed—he looked like he really didn't want the reason for his un-arrival at his aunt's place revealed. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." His aunt replied brightly. "And don't you look at me like that, Jakie. You lost the address, didn't you?" She laughed lightly. "I knew right away, of course. I just thought I'd give you a few hours to freak out before I came for you. Obviously, you couldn't wait in the main terminal for me, so I was close to a heart attack as I searched frantically—this is not a small airport, mister! Your mom would kill me if I lost you."

Jake rolled his eyes, though both women could tell he was relieved that his aunt had found him.

"All right, well, we had better get going, then, Jake." His aunt hinted gently.

Jake nodded and started saying good-bye to Hermione.

"Hermione," His aunt said suddenly. "You've got somewhere to go, right?"

Hermione laughed. "Yes, but thanks for asking. I'm actually going home—back to England. It's good, actually, that you've found him now; I really had better be going."

"Flight?" Melanie asked sympathetically.

"Er…yeah!" Hermione grinned, covering up her lie. "Anyways, it was really nice meeting you. Bye, Jake—I'll see you over break sometime, or next summer if it comes to it."

Melanie looked between the two, confused.

"Hermione goes to boarding school," Jake explained, seeing her expression.

"Oh!" Melanie laughed. "Right. All right, nice to meet you too, bye then, Hermione!"

Jake gave Hermione a quick hug, then smiled at her and made her promise to write before heading off after his aunt. They both waved from halfway across the terminal, and she waved back, smiling. She waited until they were out of eyesight before heading off in the other direction and exiting the airport.

She stood on the sidewalk outside the airport, staring up at the dark sky. What were those stupid people doing? She thought to herself angrily, completely miffed that they were taking so long to find her.

Just as this thought passed through her brain, something large and white came crashing into her at full speed. She laughed, amused by Hedwig's antics, and threw her jacket around the owl as she ran down the sidewalk and into the grass that surrounded the airport. There was a large tree circled by some bushes nearby, so she parked herself behind that and let Hedwig out. "You silly bird!" She scolded, giggling. "You almost exposed the entire magical world to the Chicago O'Hare Airport."

Hedwig hung her head, as if to apologize.

"Apology accepted." Hermione told her in a business-like voice, and took the letter from the owl's leg.

_Dear Pelican,_

_We've been informed that you are stranded in Muggle Chicago, in the United States, without wand or necessary items. Hopefully it's not your time of the month! Operation Rescue Pelican is officially in effect, as of right now. Please allow Hedwig to lead you to where you need to be for Mission Pickup._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Hot-dog and Rabbit_

Hermione rolled her eyes at their completely uncalled for 'time of the month' comment. Leave it up to them to think of something like that. In any case, Operation Rescue Pelican? As if! Harry and Ron were currently in an espionage phase—every insignificant event was an Operation, and each part of the operation was a Mission. It was borderline ridiculous. They had even made up nicknames for themselves and for her; the nicknames changed each operation. Last time she had checked her nickname had been Lioness, but apparently they had changed it to Pelican – ick! Could they think up anything stupider? Honestly, she had liked Bright Eyes, and not just because it was the name of some Muggle band that she had never even listened to. It just sounded cooler than Pelican.

Still a little ticked at the time of the month comment, she rolled the parchment back up and stuck it in her pocket. As completely thick and mental as they were, they were still her best friends, and she never threw out any letters that they—or anyone else, for that matter—sent her. "All right, Hedwig." She told the owl. "Lead away."

Surprisingly enough, the owl turned and flew away towards the airport. Say what? Were Harry and Ron trying to get them killed or the magical world found out? Or both, simultaneously? Merlin knew they were capable of it.

By a stroke of luck that could have only come from some higher being, nobody saw Hedwig as Hermione chased after her on foot. She was back on the sidewalk outside the airport; Hedwig was way up in the sky, but Hermione could still make out the speck of white against the dark backdrop. She kind of resembled a moving star, which might be why nobody noticed her.

Suddenly, Hedwig was coming down—down—what? Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath (she was still running) as she saw Hedwig lower herself. What?! There were Muggles all around! Crowds of them! Hordes of them! It was Muggle Central, most literally! International Muggles, even! What was that silly owl doing?

Hermione felt her heartbeat speed up as Hedwig's descent continued until she was only a few feet over Hermione's head. In fact, she had stopped moving. Hermione stopped as well, staring up, confused and completely not realizing that her staring up might be attracting curious stares from passersby. It was then that she realized that nobody else could see Hedwig—to anyone looking on, she simply seemed like someone admiring the sky. "Hot-dog" and "Rabbit" had probably put a disillusionment charm on her. Hm. Perhaps they weren't as thick as they seemed.

Just as she was contemplating this, something hit her stomach again, forcing the air from her lungs. Her eyes closed automatically, reflexively—seconds later, as she tried to regain her control and keep her dinner down, she forced them open, and saw to her amazement that the ground was getting further and further away.

A squeak escaped her mouth. That meant she was…she was…flying!

Hermione Granger was not afraid of many things—but if she had to pick, flying would top the miniscule list, right above the Dementor's Kiss, the mass closing of all libraries in England, and the cancellation of cable television.

With great effort, she turned her head to catch a glimpse of whoever had hauled her up into this most compromising situation.

She could have smacked herself on the head.

Obviously, those two would swoop down on brooms like some splendid prince hero would on a white stallion, grab her, in front of an entire small nation's worth of Muggles, and go up as high as physically possible—eek, had her hand just brushed a cloud?!—so that she might pee her pants to top it all off.

"You gits!" Hermione screamed into the wind as her eyes once again caught the shock of red hair.

With ease, Harry flew up next to Ron's broom and flipped her over. She had previously been on her stomach on Ron's broom, her legs and arms hanging down. Now she was balancing even more precariously—her back didn't bend like her stomach did, giving her less stability. Instead of hanging on either side of the broom, she was now balancing like a straight board, knowing that tipping one way could send her down.

"You prats!" She yelled. "Get me DOWN!"

Her bellowing was lost on them. Instead, with much effort and lack of attention to their brooms, which Hermione made sure she told them several times, each time more explosively, they got it so that she sitting on Harry's broom, right behind him, clutching his stomach and pressing her head into his back.

"I really, really hate you guys sometimes." She announced, groaning as a wave of sickness rolled over her. "I think I might throw up my dinner all over you just to illustrate how much."

She could picture Harry's disgusted face as she peeked at the back of his head, and then stuffed her face back into his back. "Ugh, I should have let you stay on Ron's broom." He told her.

She shuddered. Ron was a much less controlled flyer than Harry. With Harry, she feared for her nausea-free state, but not for her life—with Ron, she couldn't say that for a fact.

The flight was over much quicker than she expected—she might have even dropped off to sleep after a time. She could only keep up with her racing heart and short, heavy breaths and continued queasiness for so long. In any case, she found herself woken up to shouts of "Hallelujah, home!"

She looked down and immediately wished she hadn't. Her eyes drifted upwards again as they started to squeeze shut but immediately stopped as she caught the pink starting to spread across the sky. It was dawn already? They had been flying for a while! She was amazed by that and mesmerized by the impending day. It seemed, from her perspective, that they were flying right towards the sunrise, even as the top of the giant, fiery ball pricked the horizon. She could even forget the houses and cars, tiny as toys, beneath her as she gazed at the utter beauty and magnificence.

"Merlin." She whispered, her eyes glued to the sunrise. A feeling of peace flowed through her, even now, Merlin-knew-how-many-feet above solid ground (where she would prefer to be), relying on her completely nutter best friends, who she figured had better be able to demonstrate bloody good Disillusionment Charms or they were going to be in for it.

They reached the Burrow just after sunrise, and Hermione hadn't taken her eyes off the sky even once, except when they were landing and she had to burrow her head back into Harry's robes.

Finally, they reached the hard, completely heavenly ground. She stepped gingerly off the broom and collapsed blissfully onto the grass, picking it up in handfuls and smelling it before throwing it to the wind.

Harry and Ron rolled their eyes at her as they headed inside.

She quickly followed, not surprised to see her trunks and such already in the kitchen of the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley was already up, making breakfast—Harry and Ron might have owled ahead to let her know they were arriving soon, probably while she had dozed off, which she knew she had, now; there was no way she had missed those other long hours of flying otherwise.

Yes, that was it: before she had fallen asleep, Hedwig had been flying next to them; when she had woken, Hedwig had been gone. She glanced around, and figured the bird must be upstairs, resting. It was quite a long trip from England to the States.

The day passed by quickly, and while Harry and Ron went back to sleep (they had stayed up all night, flying), Hermione stayed up and reacquainted herself with the Weasley family, feeling fully rested, funnily enough. She enjoyed herself with Ginny, Fred, George, Bill, and Charlie: it was a full household.

The next day finally arrived—the day to go back to Hogwarts. Hermione was overwhelmed with joy; not only was it her seventh year, and she couldn't wait for what the year had to bring, but she was Head Girl!

She had already been notified that the Head Boy was Draco Malfoy. She had expected as much: in fact, Dumbledore had told her at the end of the last school year that he would most likely be it, and she should jump on the chance to strengthen interhouse unity, especially between Slytherin and Gryffindor, no matter how hard it might be. Hermione always enjoyed a challenge, so of course she couldn't protest.

In any case, her hate for him had slowly melted away. She was not a hateful person, and couldn't bring herself to despise him, even after their constant arguments, mostly her being provoked by him. He had, after all, had a hard childhood; that much couldn't be argued. Besides, he was kind of fascinating. Psychologically, she found it hard to figure him out, and that was annoying because she was used to being able to logically work people out—Harry and Ron, for example. Of course, she knew them a lot better than she knew him, but even for a near stranger, it was clear that he was incredibly complex. He was completely unlike anything that followed any sort of pattern, and it was puzzling.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley dropped them off at Platform 9 ¾, Mrs. Weasley saying her tearful good-byes while Mr. Weasley gave a pep talk about no trouble. Here Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged glances, which Mr. Weasley probably noticed but made no comment on.

Bill and Charlie had tagged along, as well as Fred and George: it was a rather large bundle of redheads, plus Harry and Hermione, that they plus Ron and Ginny left behind as they finally went to board the train.

"I'll see you guys later, I have to go the Heads' Cabin." Hermione told them, flashing her badge happily.

They nodded and took her luggage for her as she skipped off down the aisles to the front of the train, where the Heads' Cabin was located. She wasn't thrilled that she was going to have to share a lot of things this year with one particular Head Boy, but she couldn't complain too much—she had everything else she had wanted.

He was already there, sitting like he owned the place, all spread out over one side of the cabin.

She rolled her eyes. Obviously, he would be like that. She sat down primly as he continued to stare out the window. Irked that he would ignore her so blatantly, she cleared her throat loudly. "Hello, Malfoy." She tried to make her tone civil. She couldn't very well go the whole year at his throat or have him at hers.

He slowly turned his head towards her, as if he couldn't be bothered. He opened his mouth, and she anticipated that lazy drawl; instead, he said in a rather normal, though deep, voice, "Hello, Granger."

She cocked an eyebrow at him as he turned his head back to the window, a little confused. His body language said that he resented her, but his tone said differently. Well, she reasoned with herself, wasn't that just what she had done, too? Interesting, very interesting. "So I suppose we're going to be sharing a common room and such. We had better be on friendly, or at least not unfriendly, terms, then, right?" She immediately winced—silly Hermione, why was she making it a question? He was clearly going to throw it back into her face.

His head turned back to her slowly again and he subtly looked her over before speaking again in that same, civil tone, "I suppose."

She smiled. "Then let's start over, yes? Nice to meet you, I'm Hermione." She held out her hand.

He stared down at it, raising an eyebrow. She could have beaten herself up—why had she offered her hand? He was going to go on about her filthiness and how he couldn't touch it and all that rubbish. She started to withdraw, but then he caught it.

Shock flew up her hand and registered in her brain as they shook. "You too. I'm Draco."

Then they both let go like normal, civil people.

They didn't speak for the rest of the train ride, even when McGonagall Apparated in and gave them a comprehensive talk about their duties and code of conduct and quarters and all that. Even after she left, silence reigned in the suddenly small compartment as both stared out the window and thought their own mysterious thoughts.

Upon reaching Hogwarts, Hermione felt she should say something; just as he was about to leave, she blurted, "See you in the common room, then?"

He paused, about to exit the compartment. He turned a little, nodded slightly, paused again, and then left.

Very, very interesting.

She couldn't help but notice how attractive he was, though she didn't really let herself admit it during the train ride. Now that he was gone, it was safe; it was almost like she was afraid he could read her thoughts. If that was the case, she was beyond screwed—he would probably kill her for thinking he was 'interesting'. In any case, she wondered (like every other girl that had ever seen him) what his famed muscles were really like under his robes. His face was certainly proof enough that he was practically perfect, body-wise.

Personalities didn't count when judging physically. And Draco Malfoy definitely passed any physical tests with flying colors.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Hermione walked out of the compartment herself and found her friends, her luggage, and her comfort as they headed to the Great Hall for the feast.

They entered Hogwarts and headed for the Great Hall. Along the way, they ran into the Slytherin posse: Draco, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott. Hermione briefly wondered where Crabbe and Goyle were as she automatically moved over to walk past them. She looked up, and her eyes met his; she had never noticed before, but they were gray, like a stormy sky. She held his gaze until she walked by; he even turned his head slightly until their stare broke and they passed by each other.

Luckily, it was such a tiny, insignificant moment that nobody noticed.

That Malfoy boy was fascinating, he really was. She briefly wished she could lock him up in a lab and study his mind, find out why he was the way he was, but she wasn't cruel enough to push the seedling through her brain into an actual idea.

The feast passed quickly. The Sorting was fun like always, but she knew none of the first years personally, so it passed as well. She cheered with her house for every child that was Sorted in, but then immediately felt guilty, as didn't that promote disunity among with the houses? She felt like she was somehow breaking her promise to Dumbledore. Still, this wasn't a tradition that could be changed, because that's just what it was—tradition. Pacified, she sat through the old headmaster's speech and made funny faces at her friends across the table.

They ate like pigs—Ron especially, surprise—when the feast part finally came. Hermione found herself eating a ton as well; she hadn't realized how hungry she was. Maybe it was because she hadn't gotten anything on the train. The trolley hadn't come by the Heads' compartment, or she had missed it.

Eventually the time came for them to part. She said her good-byes to Ron, Harry, Ginny, and the rest of the gang and waited for Dumbledore and Malfoy. Dumbledore was supposed to be showing them where their common room was.

Malfoy walked through the Great Hall doors and saw her leaning against the wall right outside. He glanced at her coolly, then proceeded to completel ignore her and take a place on the wall far enough to indicate he didn't want to be talked to but near enough that when Dumbledore came he would be able to get them both.

Eventually, the old Headmaster arrived and they began the long trek to the Heads' quarters. Hermione found herself borderline confused and on the verge of lost—they went down this corridor and that and up this stairs and down those until she really had no idea where she was. Every once in a while she would spot something she recognized, but then it would disappear into another hallway and another stairwell.

They finally stopped outside a heavy oak door, which Dumbledore flicked open with his wand. "No one besides you two and I can do that," He told them. He walked through, and they followed.

There was a lobby of sorts inside the door; as they walked in, three pieces of paper fluttered from the ceiling with their names on them—Albus Dumbledore, Draco Malfoy, and Hermione Granger.

It was a small, dome-shaped room, with a single portrait straight ahead and a window to the left. The floor was intricately tiled, as was the ceiling, with various depictions of the four houses. As Hermione took it in with wonder, Dumbledore explained the paper: "The papers announce your visitors. If, perchance, someone were to knock on your door, the paper would tell you who it was, so you might take proper precautions." He cocked an eyebrow, and Hermione took it that his words had a double meaning; he wasn't necessarily talking about whipping out wands.

"Please pick your password," The Headmaster continued, his gaze sliding from one to the other. "This portrait is rather touchy and will only allow you to pick once. When you have decided, please step forward and tell the portrait, together, what it is."

Hermione glanced at Malfoy, who wasn't even looking at her. "Um, Draco? What do you want the password to be?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, not even bothering to look at her.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well, we have to pick one."

"Go for it, girl genius." He asked sarcastically.

"It would make it a lot easier if you helped me think of one!"

"As long as it's nothing ridiculous, or—" here he gave Hermione a thorough once-over "—Muggle, I don't care."

Hermione glared at him, completely befuddled by how he had relapsed from a normal, civil person back into a semi-monster. At least he hadn't used the other M-word.

She then glanced back to see what Dumbledore's reaction was, only to find that he was gone. "I thought," She told him, trying to keep her voice level, "That we had agreed on being civil?"

"And you actually thought it would happen?" He sneered. "I'm a pureblood, you're a Mud—"

"Don't." She growled. "Don't you dare say it, or your life this year will be hell, I promise you that."

With that, she advanced towards the portrait and spat out, "Fortune cookie." It was the first thing that came to her mind.

"What?!" Malfoy roared from the background.

The portrait glowed as someone appeared—a rather confused-looking garden sprite. The portrait was so big that the sprite was almost Hermione's size; she looked down at her with bulbous, shining green eyes. They were absolutely enormous. The portrait had a rounded mirror effect, so that if the sprite leaned closer, her face—especially eyes—became disproportionately large. "Oh, my! Is it school time already?"

Touchy? This portrait didn't seem touchy. Hermione nodded in response. "And the password is fortune cookie."

Malfoy stomped forward and yelled at the same time as Hermione was responding, "I told you, nothing Muggle! Fortune cookie is Muggle, you stupid bint!"

By some strange stroke of luck on Hermoine's part and ill faith on Malfoy's, they had managed to say fortune cookie at exactly the same moment. Unnoticed by either of them, the sprite had nodded, to indicate that she had noted what the new Heads' password was going to be.

"And I must have forgotten to tell you, I don't care what you think!"

He narrowed his eyes at her, then turned to the portrait. "She's gone a bit mental, I'm afraid. That's not really the password."

"Yes it is!" Hermione growled, not because she particularly liked it, just because she had picked it and he wanted to change it.

The sprite looked between the two of them, a little confused, as they had, in her books, said the password at the same exact moment. That indicated consent of both parties, right?

Malfoy stamped his foot. "I demand that you let me change the password, now!"

Bad move. The sprite's green eyes started glowing reddish, a rather creepy sight. She was determined to do her job correctly as a portrait and wouldn't let anybody ruin that. Hermione involuntarily stepped back as the sprite shrieked, "NOBODY CHANGES THE PASSWORD!" Then she disappeared into blackness.

"See, look what you've done!" Hermione yelped. "Now our portrait hates us, and we won't be able to get in."

Malfoy seemed to have regained his calm. He stepped forward and said, "Fortune cookie," as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

The sprite appeared briefly, back to normal, and the portrait swung open, admitting them. Malfoy turned to look through the hole, but then stepped back and indicated that Hermione should go through first.

She glared at him. "Who do you think you are?" She demanded. He had been adverse again, and now he wanted to be chivalrous?

"A gentleman, under any circumstances." He told her in monotone, like he was reciting something he had been made to memorize. He probably had been—he had impeccable manners and taste and dancing skills and everything else that a child of a high-profile family would be taught. Of course, this didn't apply to _people like her_, so she didn't get why it should now.

She snorted at him, but went through and stepped aside so he could come through too.

The common room was large, but cozy-looking. The walls were stone, with large tapestries of each house hanging on the free wall. There was a sitting area by a fireplace, with overstuffed sofas and beanbags. Hermione couldn't wait to curl up there with a good book on those long, winter nights….

She touched the wall, and was surprised to feel that it was warm, unlike the stone in the rest of the building. That was a nice surprise. She looked up ahead and saw the two curving staircases that led up to their rooms—upon further examination, she saw that they were connected by a bathroom.

Her room had her name on the oak door in gold plating—inside, it had deep maroon walls with a Gryffindor crest above her four-poster king-sized bed, fitted with a cream, gold, and maroon comforter. There was an oak desk in a corner with a plush, overstuffed maroon chair by it. A window next to the bed looked out over the Quidditch pitch, which was currently cloaked in darkness.

She grinned and fell onto her bed—it was ridiculously soft and bouncy, just as she had expected. She eagerly opened the door into the bathroom and gasped; it was as grandiose as the prefects' bathroom, perhaps even more so, with gold and silver fixings and trim and green and red marble. She didn't even know that existed! Half the floor, from her door to the center of the room, had maroon marble with a gold line running through it in various spiraling patterns. From Malfoy's door to the center it was emerald marble, with a silver line running the mirror image of the gold. The gold line ran on into the emerald, intertwining with the silver as the silver did the same on the maroon side. It was a beautiful, intricate design that held her spellbound for several minutes.

"If you don't mind reeling your mouth back in and kindly leaving, I have to use the facilities."

Completely annoyed at him, once again, she turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her. Honestly, what was that boy's problem? One minute, he was perfectly nice, and the next, he was a stupid prat again!

_Well, why not? Admit it—you're intrigued._

What was up with that stupid fortune cookie? It kept popping into her head at the most inappropriate times. Like now, when she was trying to figure out Mal—

Oh.

She sprang onto her bed, her brain much too buzzed to have to worry about standing up as well. Could Muggle fortune cookies actually be…well…truthful? Maybe this was what it had been referring to! It was true, Malfoy intrigued her most completely; his behavior fit no pattern whatsoever, and she could tell, he really didn't truly mean what he said about their blood differences. He might still think he did, but she could tell, he didn't. He said it like he was trying to convince himself more than her.

It could be that he was afraid of his father. Who wouldn't be? Lucius was a rather frightening man. But that would be over soon. The Dark Lord was so close to falling, one breath would knock him over. She was confident that it would all be over in a few months. Lucius himself was on the run, the last she had heard.

So why not? Really? All he would do would be to push her away, humiliate her…well, honestly speaking, she was better-liked than he was, universally. Perhaps his friends were more powerful than hers (disregarding Harry), but she had enough strength to take him on.

Why not?

She got up off her bed and turned the corner, practically ran down the hall that ran in front of her room to his, accessible by either staircase, and pounded on the door.

"What?" He asked, irritated, from inside. She heard a door shut, and she assumed it was the door from the bathroom to his room. He was back. Good.

"Let me in!" She yelled.

"No need to scream, Granger." He told her haughtily as the door opened.

She didn't give him time to say anything or react. She just flung her arms around him and pressed her lips to his, forcing her mind away from the consequences of what she was doing. Enough with rules. The fortune cookie definitely had something—why not?

She felt it, and she was pretty certain he felt it too. That bloody fortune cookie knew them better than they knew themselves. She had never felt like an electric shock was running down her body when she had kissed a boy before—and though many people at Hogwarts probably wouldn't believe her, she had kissed many boys. There was Krum, but then there were also her Muggle friends that none of her Hogwarts friends really knew anything about.

All those other boys most definitely did not add up to this.

She was glad he wasn't pushing her away: in fact, his hands had come up to wrap around her. He did feel it too. She really didn't want to ever let go, what with the delicious feeling running down her spine and making her shiver.

They finally had to part for breath. She looked at him, and then felt the blush—even after all that, she was still Hermione Granger, and this was not something she usually did.

Utterly surprisingly, though, he didn't look enraged. Instead, he looked sort of dazed.

She definitely wasn't going to be the one to set him off. She turned to leave, and started to walk—but found that she couldn't. Confused, she turned back to see that he had caught her wrist, and was still looking at her with that dazed expression.

Blushing deeper, she turned back. "Hello?"

The sound must have brought him out of his deep, meditative shock, because he suddenly smiled.

Smiled! Imagine that! Hermione found herself smiling too and found that she rather liked his smile. She wasn't sure that she had ever seen him genuinely smile, but now that she had, she wasn't sure she had seen anything more beautiful in her entire life.

"Are you just going to stand there like an idiot?" She found herself asking, but without the usual bite. It was almost like…flirting. Between a Slytherin and a Gryffindor—and not just any, but _them. _Call the Ministry; this should go down in the history books as one of the most unprecedented Wizarding feats of all time.

He shook his head.

"Well, then, are you going to find something better to do?"

"Why not?" He asked, and then pulled her to him again. Another explosive kiss followed—Hermione closed her eyes and found that something akin to fireworks were popping behind her eyelids, filling her with brilliance.

When they broke apart, exhilarated and satisfied, she found herself leaning against his muscular chest, listening to his heartbeat, and thinking that even if this moment never reoccurred, she would be okay with it, because all she needed to know was that it had happened, and that it was possible to feel like this.

Her voice was so slight that it was barely a murmur against his shirt. "Why not, indeed."

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